The 100th Hunger Games (SYOT)
by zeldahappy24
Summary: The 74th Hunger Games had no victor. 26 years later, it's the fourth Quarter Quell, and it's announced that there will be no volunteering. But the berries of the 74th are still remembered, and with the last Quell still hanging heavy over their minds, will everyone play by the rules? Is the spark of rebellion diminished, but still burning? (Send your own tribute)(T for Hunger Games)
1. Prologue

**SYOT Format is on my profile page, please PM me your response! Thanks~**

I sit, comfortable, perched on the edge of my sofa. My hand searches for a piece of popcorn, and I pop it in my mouth just as the TV switches on.

"Tula? Manno?" I call loudly. "Hurry up, it's starting!"

"It is?" Manno rushes into the room, blue eyes wide with excitement, blonde curls bouncing, tickling his face. He shifts a little, and I catch a glimpse of Tula behind him, her spindly arm gripping a toy sword I bought her just for the occasion.

I pat the space next to me, and they both crawl onto the sofa, Tula next to me and Manno's head resting on my lap. The popcorn's immediately sought after, and he grips a fistful his pudgy hand as the seal of Panem lights up the room in a cosy hue. Then it vanishes, and we're live outside the training centre, where Caesar Flickerman proudly sits, addressing his audience.

"Are you ready for the 100th Annual Hunger Games?" The crowd meets this with rapturous applause. I see this year, his hair is dyed a striking lime green, and he has a new matching suit to compliment it. I wonder if this will be the next new fashion? I better head to the shops tomorrow just in case.

"I'll hand you over to our very own, President Snow!" Slightly less applause this time. Ever since the incident of her, there's always been an absence of love towards 'our very own President'. Manno gives me a very stern 'shh' as I stick my hand in the popcorn bowl again, his face lit up in anticipation, glued to the screen. He doesn't want to miss a second. Why would he? We've all been brought up on the Games, brought up watching tributes bludgeon and stab each other to death. It's a form of entertainment. Fun. A time to celebrate, to get together with family and huddle around the television.

"Good evening, Panem." He pauses. "I am here today to announce the the fourth Quarter Quell since the beginning of the Hunger Games." A boy behind him holds out an old, wooden box and he grips it in his pale hands. That's funny. Usually he spends a little more time speaking, but with the reaction to the previous Quell I guess he wants to get this over with as fast as possible. Not everyone was satisfied with all the previous victors entering the arena again. Though our childhood was filled with the Games, it was also filled with the victors. The children who had the odds in their favour that fateful day. Of course, they were also very popular among the betters. Snow extracts a slip of yellowed paper and begins to read.

"To remind the rebels that they were powerless to stop their own destruction, for the fourth Quell the tributes reaped cannot accept any volunteers."

So the children picked will be the children in the games. No volunteering. Manno squeals excitedly.

Things are about to get interesting.


	2. District 1: Reaping

**Satin Gallows**

I stand, solid, feet spread, waiting last in the line for the reaping. It was supposed to be my year. My year to win the Games. To volunteer. I'd completed the tournament and come out on top. And all my efforts? Wasted. Winning that competition did nothing for me. All because of this stupid Quell.

Softly, I pat the head of the small child in front of me, something for my restless mind to do. He turns, and smiles at me with his emerald-green eyes and thin lips, strands of blonde hair tickling the tip of his nose. My brother, Matt. People say we could be twins, we look that alike. The same shade of eyes, hair, and skin. Except the fact that he's twelve, and I'm sixteen. Both in the reaping.

"Your hand please?"

Matt flinches as the woman sitting behind the table pricks him with some kind of needle. He peels off into the pen filled with children his own age. All have worried faces and look extremely nervous. Of course. There won't be a deadly 18 year old to volunteer for them this year. The woman takes hold of my arm without warning and I almost punch her, but all she does is repeat her catchphrase whilst adding my blood to her book. I'm shown into a group of other sixteen year-olds and the reaping begins.

**Matt Gallows**

Jupiter, our escort, climbs the stage dressed in his ridiculous, slightly lopsided aqua wig and adjusts the microphone on the podium. I have to stifle a laugh as he then tries to adjust his wig, obviously failing, but then I see the anxious faces in peripheral vision and I remind myself that this is not the place to laugh.

I daze off during the treaty of treason and start to wonder what the Games will be like this year. Baking desert? Roofed forest? Hopefully not like the last year, where the tributes were stranded in a giant maze with only clubs to bludgeon each other to death. I didn't really enjoy watching that.

"First, the girls." His voice brings me back to my senses and my gaze fixes back onto the stage. He dunks his hand into the girls' circular glass bowl, swishes it around a little, before he finds the chosen slip of starch-white paper and pulls it out. I'm not really listening when he says the name.

"Satin Gallows!"

I watch with a smile as my sister strides proudly from her pen and crosses to the stage. She looks completely euphoric. Giddy, even. And those aren't usually words I'd apply to Satin. With the loss of volunteering, she probably thought she was out of the Games for good. But now? It's like her wish was granted. And I'm happy for her. Until Jupiter reads the next name.

"Matt Gallows!"

**Satin**

My smile drops from my face instantly and I almost scream. But then the façade is back up; giddy grin plastered onto my unwilling lips. Can't seem weak. Can't. Though it's hard to seem happy when my brother is climbing the stage, climbing the steps to his own inevitable death. He gives Jupiter a shaky smile, then half-collapses into the seat next to me. This was supposed to be my year. My year to win the Games.

It _has_ to be my year.

Jupiter concludes the ceremony with a cheerful, "And may the odds be ever in your favour!" We, the tributes, have to link arms. I interlock my fingers with his. Matt's grip is hard. A death grip. I force myself to stare straight ahead, not looking at his eyes, the emerald eyes so similar to my own. Because I will win these Games. Nothing will get in my way.

From now I don't have a brother.


End file.
